One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
*Today is also the forty-seventh anniversary of Dr. King’s march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama for voting rights. And, tonight is the Million Hoodie March, an attempt to demand justice for a young black man shot for nothing more, it appears, than walking home from the store while black. Sometimes the arc bends; sometimes, it appears to still have a long way to go.
But beyond [His] curiosity was delight. Chaos pleased him. He liked things to get more and more furious, more wild, more ungraspable, he was at home in turbulence. He would provoke turbulence to please himself and tried to understand it in order to make more of it. He was in burning columns of smoke in battlefields. He was in the fury of rivers bursting their banks, or the waterwalls of high tides throwing themselves over flood defences, bringing down ships and houses.
He was reckless and cunning, both.
*The insane temperatures across the U.S. have me wondering about our climate’s own Ragnarok. Everything’s blooming all at once here in the sort of chaos that Loki would love. The birds seem to be engaging in the Great Rite earlier than normal, as well. I hope we don’t get an April freeze, as we sometimes do.
*Rima pens a lovely tribute to a departed friend. In doing so, she describes the kind of community (yes, I’m still sitting for a few minutes every morning with that word) that I think most of us seek:
Since Thomas died, I have got to know strands of him I didn’t know before, as this wonderful community of ours weaves itself around his death and darns the wound with arms. I am astonished and proud of our village on the edge of the moor – I can see that it does well these hard hard things, and I can see that here those whose pain is the sharpest will continue to be cared for well and will be caught again and again when they stumble.
May it be so for you.